


Hedge Your Bets

by brinnanza



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode S06E10 The M.A.S.H Olympics, Episode Tag, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 11:31:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12320208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: “I’ve got a better idea,” BJ says, sitting up. He swings his legs over the side of the cot and pushes Hawkeye backwards to make a space. “You remember your original idea, me cowering at your feet? Let’s do that instead.”





	Hedge Your Bets

**Author's Note:**

> A post-ep for the MASH Olympics because uh be the smut you wish to see in the world I guess. This is just a stand alone; it doesn't take place in the more the merrier ot3 verse and it's established relationship cause uh it was easier to write that way. Thanks to Pat for looking this over and catching all my typos.

Downtime, like edible food, sleep, and clean socks, is rare in Korea (unless, of course, downtime is _all_ there is). Playing indulgent chauffeur to Hawkeye’s whims has not exactly improved BJ’s balance of it, but after a week of casualties, sporting events, more casualties, and a sore winner, he’s finally found a moment to lounge in his cot with the crumbs of Peg’s latest care package and the medical journal that keeps falling down his to-do list.

He glances warily across the tent at Hawkeye, who’s flipping idly through one of his dirty magazines, but not with any real intent. Not because BJ’s there -- he’s let BJ “accidentally” walk in on him enough times that BJ had eventually told him he could stop bothering with the pretense -- but BJ can tell by the set of his shoulders and the firm line of his mouth that he’d rather have company.

Sure enough, BJ gets exactly one page into his journal before Hawkeye throws down the magazine and calls cheerily, “Oh, driver!”

The bet had seemed like a good idea at the time. Before this little sojourn into hell, BJ had kept himself in reasonably decent shape, whereas Hawkeye’s approach to exercise was generally limited to horizontal calisthenics. BJ would win easily, make Hawkeye push him around for a day or two, and then gallantly relinquish the remainder of the week in favor of gloating.

He hadn’t counted on the ham.

Klinger’s salami _or_ Margaret’s husband.

Still, a bet’s a bet, so he’d grinned through it for three days despite the loud protests of his shoulder. Hawkeye would tire of it soon, BJ reasoned -- a few very public trips between the Swamp and the mess tent, complete with some very public ribbing, and that would be that.

It has not, thus far, been that.

With roughly the same willingness as he eats days-old breaded liver in the mess, BJ sets aside the journal. He pastes a smile on his face, well aware that it doesn’t reach his eyes. Maybe Hawkeye will notice, he thinks wildly, that he’s rapidly approaching the line that sits between “a bet’s a bet” and “too far.” (It seems unlikely. Hawkeye lives on the side of “too far”.)

“Yes?” BJ says, allowing a slight scalpel edge of irritation into his tone.

Hawkeye adopts a stuffy, pretentious tone that coincidentally sounds a lot like Charles and draws himself up to match. “I’d like to take a circuit through the garden,” he says. He pushes up from his bunk and drops into the wheelchair that’s parked next to it, flashing BJ what he thinks of as his most convincing grin. “I hear the nurses are blooming early this year.”

BJ’s shoulder twinges. “I’d hate to get in the way of your deflowering,” he says. “Maybe you’d better go under your own power.”

“Nonsense,” Hawkeye says. He wheels himself around the mound of dirty laundry that’s piled in front of the still so he can bump his knees against the edge of BJ’s cot. “Come on, Beej.” He draws the words out into a whine and then bats his eyelashes coquettishly in a way that should not be nearly as attractive as it is. It’s probably a good thing that Hawkeye has yet to notice exactly how endearing BJ finds his relentless, futile fumbling or he’d never get a moment’s peace again.

On the other hand….

“I’ve got a better idea,” BJ says, sitting up. He swings his legs over the side of the cot and pushes Hawkeye backwards to make a space. “You remember your original idea, me cowering at your feet? Let’s do that instead.”

Hawkeye makes a face. “In the first place, I said you cowering at my feet whilst I sit upon a _throne_ , which we are still sorely lacking. In the second place, how long can you possibly cower? I’m a busy man; I can’t sit around all day while you kneel in deference to my superior athletic skill.”

In point of fact, Hawkeye had almost nothing to do with his team’s victory, but it seems prudent not to mention that.

BJ lets a slow smile slide across his mouth and pitches his voice low. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” He slides off the cot and onto his knees in front of Hawkeye and gives him a slow, deliberate once-over. “You’ll still get to where you want to go.” He settles his palms on Hawkeye’s knees and slides them a little ways up his thighs, just enough to make his meaning clear.

Understanding dawns on Hawkeye’s face with a lascivious smirk. “Oh I see,” he says, leaning forward enough to grasp the collar of BJ’s shirt. Hawkeye's fingertips dragging lightly across BJ’s collarbone draws him in like a riptide, unrelenting and impossible to escape, and a shiver runs down BJ’s spine.

“It’s a very tempting offer,” Hawkeye murmurs, and he bends down a little more until his mouth is a hairsbreadth from BJ’s. BJ rises up on his knees to close the remaining distance between them, desire curling warm in his belly, but just before their lips meet, Hawkeye rears back and lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “But a bet’s a bet, Hunnicutt -- no welshing!” He crosses his arms over his chest and straightens his back imperiously so he can peer down his nose at BJ. “Up and at ‘em!”

Despite his crowing, Hawkeye is not, BJ notes, entirely unaffected. BJ has an excellent view of Hawkeye’s lap from his knees, and Hawkeye’s cock has taken a definite interest in the proceedings.

BJ slides his hands a little farther up Hawkeye’s thighs until his thumb just brushes the tip and fixes Hawkeye with an absolutely filthy smirk. “Well you certainly seem to be,” he says. He crooks his thumb just the slightest bit. “Why don’t you let me do something about that?”

“That’s cheating,” Hawkeye says, a little breathless. “I like it.”

BJ moves his hand a bit higher, stroking with his thumb just enough to tease. “So you agree?” The words come out fairly even -- BJ is not exactly unaffected by the proceedings either, but Hawkeye’s penchant for getting handsy under the mess tent tables has given him plenty of practice at keeping his arousal out of his voice. “I do a little cowering and then I’m off the hook?”

“You agreed to a week,” Hawkeye says, but BJ can hear his self control (what little he possesses) crumbling. He uses his palm, firm sliding pressure that has Hawkeye exhaling tiny whimpers, his lips parted obscenely.

“I can stop,” BJ says pleasantly. He curls his fingers around Hawkeye’s cock through his trousers. “If you’d rather try your luck with the nurses….”

Hawkeye groans, deep and unself-conscious, grasping the armrests of the wheelchair with white knuckles and shoving his hips up against BJ’s hand. “Fine, yes, anything,” he pants. “Please --”

“So that’s what it takes for you to use your manners,” BJ says. He flicks open Hawkeye’s pants and shoves his shorts out of the way so he can free Hawkeye’s erection. He wraps a hand around it and gives it a slow, experimental stroke.

“Tighter,” Hawkeye says. He’s just as precise and demanding about sex as he is about surgery, long hours of practice and a deft proficiency at both under his belt. BJ tightens his grip, and Hawkeye moans, rough and needy, hips rocking up.

BJ lets him thrust up into his hand a few more times and then bars an arm across his hips to hold him steady. Hawkeye whines at the loss of friction, and BJ leans down to use his mouth, tonguing lightly at the tip before pressing gentle, sucking kisses along the shaft.

“You’re -- _fuck_ , _BJ_ \-- such a tease.” Hawkeye strains against BJ’s hold, but BJ doesn’t give him an inch, lest he take a mile.

BJ looks up at Hawkeye through his lashes, hand moving lazily along Hawkeye’s cock. “Just one of my many admirable qualities,” he says with a cheeky grin.

“Not right now it isn’t -- _oh_!” Hawkeye’s words slide into a loud moan when BJ swallows him down, the tip of his tongue tracing patterns as he slides his lips down. Hawkeye doesn’t bother to stifle it -- anyone who might have a problem with what they’re doing will make assumptions about who he’s with -- and the sound sends a crackle of electricity down BJ’s spine that has his own cock straining against the unpleasantly tight confines of his trousers.

He presses his palm against it, just for a moment, just to take the edge off, and runs the flat of his tongue along the underside of Hawkeye’s cock. Hawkeye bucks up against him, grounding out, “Fuck, BJ, do that again.” BJ repeats the motion, a soft moan escaping his throat at Hawkeye’s pleased groan.

BJ starts up a steady rhythm, just a little too soft and slow for Hawkeye to tip over the edge. He’s tempted to draw it out, wait until Hawkeye is really begging before giving him what he needs. The thought sends a hot bolt of desire into his gut -- sometimes he thinks he could come just from listening to the litany that spills from Hawkeye’s mouth, half sentences and pleading groans that dance along BJ’s nerves, sparking  like static electricity in the air before a summer storm.

Hawkeye gets a hand in BJ’s hair and tugs impatiently, hooking the fingers of his other hand into BJ’s collar. “BJ, come on,” he whines, wriggling his hips in the scant space BJ has allowed him between his arm and the back of the wheelchair. He yanks on BJ’s collar, fingernails scraping at his collarbone, and BJ alters his angle slightly so he can look up at him. Hawkeye's head is tipped back, eyes screwed shut, and his chest is heaving. His skin is flushed red, and he’s far too beautiful for this drab, wretched place.

BJ hollows his cheeks, speeding up, and Hawkeye’s hand scrabbles in his hair, short abortive little tugs as his moans get higher and higher pitched. “BJ,” he gasps, “BJ, I’m gonna --” and then he comes with a cry that settles into whimpers.

He doesn’t wait for BJ to settle back before he’s fisting a hand in BJ’s collar and pulling him up off of the floor. “God, you’re so -- get up here.” BJ braces himself on the armrests of the wheelchair, cock desperately hard, and Hawkeye drags their mouths together. His tongue curls against BJ’s, tasting himself.

Hawkeye gets a hand into BJ’s pants, long fingers wrapping around BJ’s aching cock and stroking just the way he needs. BJ moans against Hawkeye’s lips, distracted from the kiss by Hawkeye’s talented grasp. Hawkeye nips at his collarbone, sharp stinging bites that have BJ shoving his hips into Hawkeye’s deft fingers. “Come on, Beej,” Hawkeye says, twisting his fist at the top of BJ’s cock. “Come on, come for me.”

BJ drops his forehead to Hawkeye’s shoulder, one knee resting on the seat of the wheelchair between Hawkeye’s splayed thighs. He pants against Hawkeye’s neck, and the whole world shrinks to Hawkeye’s hand on his cock, Hawkeye’s hot breath is his ear murmuring, “I got you -- gonna make you feel so good. Come on, come for me, I want to see it --”

There’s a rush of white noise in BJ’s ears, gasping cries crawling up out of his throat. Hawkeye’s hand and his voice has him cresting higher and higher until the tide finally breaks on the shore and he comes, pleasure rolling over him in gentle waves.

Boneless in the wake of release, he shoves his pants down and off and falls back onto the cot behind him, bare from the waist down. He lies in the afterglow for a long moment as his heart rate settles, sunlight humming in his veins.

When he’s caught his breath, he rolls onto his side so can look at Hawkeye, still sprawled obscenely in the wheelchair. Hawkeye’s head is tipped back, a pleased, post-coital smile lingering on his kiss-bruised lips. “Hey BJ,” he says, eyes still closed. BJ watches his chest rise and fall. “You know that four bucks I owe you from last week’s poker game?”

“Mmhmm,” BJ says, suspicion fighting a brief, losing battle with exhaustion.

“Wanna do this instead?”


End file.
